


Kink Bingo Mini-Fills

by voodoochild



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Clothing Kink, Community: kink_bingo, Crossdressing, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face Slapping, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Hand Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Orgy, Parent/Child Incest, Sleepy Sex, Underage Sex, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>10 vignettes, written for Kink Bingo's December Mini-Challenge. Kinks and warnings listed in each section.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the heartlines on your hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charlie/Gillian, for the prompt "smacking/slapping". Consensual S&M and slight violence. Title from Florence and the Machine's "Heartlines".

_"Maybe I need you to smack it for me."_

It had been a joke, she'd thought. Harmless flirting, to push and prod and see what this puffed-up little boy in a man's suit would do. She'd never expected him to come back weeks later (even after a cup of coffee flung across him and a march at the point of her son's gun) and look at her with that too-piercing look of his.

"Still need me to smack that fresh mouth of yours?"

"Still need to be given permission?" she retorts, and oh, there it is.

Sharp, stinging slap right across her mouth, and she smiles. Raises an eyebrow and he does it again, harder. The third is backhand, and it knocks her back, but at the same time it sets her heart pounding and the wetness dripping between her legs.

She lets him have two more before she pulls him to the bed and makes him kiss it better.


	2. there's gonna be a meter on your bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AR/Charlie, for the prompt "exhibitionism". Contains allusions to Masseria/Charlie, and mentions of non-con underage activities. Title from Leonard Cohen's "Everybody Knows".

He fucking hates this.

It would be all right, he supposes, if it were only AR. He doesn't mind showing off for AR - seeing how hot he can get the boss, it's a complete headtrip - but for an asshole like Masseria and the Tammany clowns? He couldn't look at them if he had to.

And Rothstein knows that, knows him better than he knows himself, and told him "eyes on me, Charlie, no matter what". He can do that, can narrow his focus down away from the sweat beading down his back and the leers he's getting from what he might as well admit is the audience. He can block out the chatter ("fuck me, look at that tight little ass on him" "yeah right, Browning, he wouldn't give it up to you" _"Leccacazzi. Egli è stato sempre facile."_ and NO, he wouldn't thank you very fucking much) because AR's told him to. He can kneel here for as long as Rothstein wants him to.

"Charlie, look at me," AR says, crossing in front of Masseria to stand in front of Charlie. He places a hand to the back of Charlie's head, nails scratching gently into the curls there, and Charlie relaxes a little. "Good. That's good."

 _"Stai cazzegiari. E' uno troia, l'ha fatto,"_ Masseria says.

Charlie can't take it. _"Sei proprio pazza non fottai."_ , he snarls, and AR's hand tightens in his hair.

"I didn't tell you to talk, did I?" Rothstein asks, and Charlie shakes his head. "You don't need to say anything to these gentlemen. They know who you belong to, and an insult to you is an insult to me, isn't it?"

Charlie grins, and sneaks a look over at Masseria. Joe the Boss doesn't look in charge now. Not when his least favorite Jewboy took the one piece of jailbait ass he couldn't get. He looks so angry he could pop, watching the way Charlie leans into Rothstein, face turned into the stroke of Rothstein's hand. Practically drooling at the way Charlie's dick is threatening to burst through his pants and so fucking jealous that he can look, but he can't touch.

It ain't so bad, belonging to Arnold Rothstein. All the fucks and none of the fucking-over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leccacazzi. Egli è stato sempre facile. - Cocksucker. He's always been easy.  
> Stai cazzegiari. E' uno troia, l'ha fatto - You're talking shit. He's a slut, just do it.  
> Sei proprio pazza non fottai. - You're just pissed I wouldn't fuck you.


	3. be a woman like a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angela/Richard(/Jimmy), for the prompt "gender play". Title from Damien Rice's "Woman Like a Man".

"Use mine," comes the voice from behind her, and she jumps before her brain catches up to her nerves.

Richard's holding out his cap with an unreadable look in his eye - not that she can read him at the best of times, but this is exceptionally inscrutable - taking in her strange clothing. Grey trousers she'd bought a few sizes too small for Jimmy, then sewed to fit her. One of Jimmy's shirts, thrown on the mending pile for the bullet hole in the back and the bloodstains she'd scrubbed out. A vest in an unusual shade of peacock blue, a gift from Mary weeks before she left for Paris. Richard's own tie, knotted around her throat and pulled askew.

She shivers under his study, and takes the cap, placing it on her head. Richard snorts impatiently and reaches over to pluck the hat off, then rearrange her hair so that it's all covered when he puts the cap back on. He pulls back, then studies her again; pulls her tie straight, buttons the cuffs of her shirt so that they're not hanging over her fingertips.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing?" she says.

Richard shakes his head. "It's Sunday," he says by way of explanation.

Sunday is her day of freedom. It still bothers Jimmy, but with Richard living under their roof, he can't very well begrudge her one day of pursuing her interests. So Richard will take Jimmy and Tommy fishing, and Angela will sneak off to meet Louise. Or Trudy. Or Florence. Or any one of a number of ladies she'd met at the bohemian soiree that night.

They just never talk about it.

"It doesn't . . . bother me. If that's what you're worried about."

"I'm curious, actually. You've never expressed an opinion on the arrangement. But most men would find this strange or inappropriate. They'd think me immoral for dressing as a man."

His gaze softens. His hands reach out to rest on her hips and stroke over the fabric. "You're beautiful. It doesn't matter what you choose to dress like."

She's glad it wasn't Jimmy who caught her. Richard is more curious, more willing to open his mind to the uncommon. Jimmy would complain, ask why she couldn't go out in normal clothes, tell her she looked just as pretty in a dress. She'd need to find the words to express all the things she's read about - repressive society, patriarchy, gender norms - and try and explain it to him.

It would end with a screaming match and sex on the countertops. Again.

"Do you know why?" she asks.

A fleeting smile.

"Freedom."


	4. tangled up in blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaret, written for the prompt "silks/velvet/feathers/furs". Title from the Bob Dylan song of the same name.

The luxury would have been unthinkable just a few short months ago.

Deep, plush furs in black and brown and white, to ward off the chill of the boardwalk. Fine, spun silks in every color of the rainbow - kimonos and dresses and wraps - more than you could ever wear in a lifetime. Lingerie and corselets and stockings, and sometimes, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror and wonder who that grand lady is.

You vow not to take it for granted, because although your daughter will soon forget winters with only one blanket and shoes with holes in them, you will not. No amount of clothing, however beautiful, could make you do that.

The blue silk dress, still bloodstained, hanging in your wardrobe, is a reminder.


	5. last train to martyrdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard/Jimmy, for the prompt "blades". Contains consensual knifeplay. Title from Matthew Good's "Folk Singer".

You trust him with your life, as he trusts you with his, and that is the only reason you even consider this.

You expect him to stutter his words, heartfelt though they may be, because Jimmy _wants_ , but he never _asks_. You expect a quiet "can I?", a gesture to where he'd like to mark you up. Maybe a soft apology before he starts to press the knife to your flesh.

It wouldn't be too much to ask, because pain is all too familiar. From the pulse of your missing eye to the scrape of your throat every time you try to speak to the dull twinge of an empty stomach to the bone-deep ache in your shoulder - pain is something you know, something you live with every day.

But Jimmy surprises you. He closes the door to your room, strips down to his trousers, and hands you his combat knife. He kneels at your feet, and you can't breathe for the wave of emotion that washes over you.

He doesn't belong on his knees. Not for you.

"I can't-"

"Richard, please. I need you to do this." His head is bowed, the vulnerable nape of his neck and the smooth line of his back bared before you, and he's trembling with how badly he wants it. "You . . . I trust you."

The knife is cool in your hand. You don't like knives - guns are precise and you know their workings - but you can see why he carries it. There's a solidity to it that reminds you of your Colt. A brush of your thumb to the blade tells you he keeps it sharp, and the welling up of blood is a warning.

Be careful.


	6. the power to make a diamond in their own two hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carolyn/AR/Charlie/Meyer, for the prompt "orgies and decadence". Title from Kanye West and Jay-Z's "Diamonds from Sierra Leone".

She is surrounded by worshipers, as a queen should be.

Charlie pulls her by her choker, up onto her knees to kiss him with just enough teeth to sting. It makes the diamonds press into her throat, but never hard enough to hurt. He is her black knight, eyes dark as sin and twice as wicked.

Arnold presses to her back, warm and solid as he cannot be in the light of day. His eyes shine with suckers pulled and the slow victory of a poker table, hand sneaking up her dress to stroke along her thigh. He is king to her queen, controlled and assured.

Meyer's the surprise, the perfect courtier in bed and out. There's a devotion she won't put a name to when he looks at her and Arnold. He puts his mouth to her husband when she asks, but the flick of his eyes to Charlie and the enjoyment he shows are entirely his own.

She's wanted this for years, a way to share his boys and see what he sees in them. She takes what she wants without shame; Charlie's mouth and Meyer's hands, touching her only the way she asks.

It's the most perfect anniversary gift Arnold could have given her.


	7. silk suit, black tie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meyer/AR, for the prompt "dress-up". Title from ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man".

Meyer took to formal dress like the proverbial duck to water.

(Charlie? Well, Charlie hadn't even known how to tie a tie before you took him on.)

Meyer loves it, though, eyes lighting up like a boy's when you take him to Katz's, down in the Bowery. He'll let you talk fabrics with Jacob without even squirming, and stays so perfectly still while being measured.

But his eyes burn like gunshots through the streets he and Charlie run for you. He comes out in the new suit - charcoal, with a blue linen shirt, and a black patterned vest and tie - and you know it's going to be lying on your bedroom floor in approximately thirty minutes.

"Help me with my tie, AR?"

Make that fifteen.


	8. with a record collection and the mirror's affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angela/Jimmy/Richard, for the prompt "mirrors and doubles". Title from Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself".

When Jimmy and Richard are away, doing whatever it is that causes Jimmy to come back flint-eyed and Richard to have blood under his nails, she waits. She tries everything she can think of to distract herself, paints and listens to records and even cleans.

And when that fails and the loneliness is too much to bear, she locks her door and undresses. Slips her fingers between her legs and imagines what they could have:

Jimmy on his knees in front of her, mouth licking at her cunt while Richard holds her up.

Richard bending her over the brass headboard, fucking her with all the strength in his lean frame, Jimmy smoking and watching.

Sketching them while they fuck each other. Committing to memory the strain in Richard's arms and the arch to Jimmy's back.

She hopes they hurry home.


	9. the dust at dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy/Gillian, for the prompt "sleepy/unconscious". Contains explicit mother/son incest and dubious consent.

You love him best in the mornings, after the frantic couplings in the dark, but before daylight draws stark all your sins.

Sometimes, when he wakes before you, he'll lie beside you and watch you sleep. Trace gentle, sweet lines over your mouth, the line of your throat, the curve of your breasts and waist. Touch you more sweetly than you let anyone else.

From him, you can take it.

Sometimes you wake before him, and you don't move. You don't dare even breathe too loudly, for fear of waking him and catching him in a self-loathing, penitent mood. You just look at your beautiful boy, still prone to letting his feet hang off the bed, and remember a time when he was still yours.


	10. i'd like you under my skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy/Richard, for the prompt "bodies and body parts". Vague spoilers for 2.10, "Georgia Peaches", and 2.12, "To the Lost". Title from Frank Sinatra's "I've Got You Under My Skin".

Richard's hands are steady, no matter what.

Wrapped around his gun. Stirring a saucepan. Meticulously keeping a record of their booze shipments. Gently handing a toy to Tommy.

Jimmy supposes he can't be blamed for not being able to get Richard's hands out of his mind. He needs to know how they'd feel around his dick, if they'd pull his hair, how Richard's gun calluses would taste on his tongue.

Would he leave bruises?, Jimmy wonders, and doesn't even notice it's less of a question and more of a deep, aching hope. More of a plea, a need for something that lasts, that won't fade like Angela's scent on the pillows.

He wants something to remember Richard by.


End file.
